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It was a man’s crowd, mostly, with the latent aggression that usually means. But they did not clash and fizzle like poles of opposite feeling should. Pats voices roared the gloating songs of victory, Bohs heads dipped, no stopping till Phibsborough. Still, leaving the Aviva Stadium on Sunday evening you were struck by the way the currents of fans flowed by each other in tolerant disregard. The lads in Irishtown were a bad batch but it’s a strong cocktail at the best of times. As much as the big day at the Aviva is a chance for the peasant to wear the clothes of an emperor, so the flares and chants and banners that give a League of Ireland occasion its atmosphere can sometimes feel like juvenile ultra cosplay. If they do, it is as part of a greater sense of Irish football trying to figure itself out. Are they even worth talking about? Do they mean anything? They numbered a fraction of a percentage of the thousands who were part of the day. What about the carry-on in Irishtown? A bunch of thugs set upon a gathering of fans from the other side for no apparent reason other than to act out some pantomime hooligan choreography. Maybe that’s why cup final day feels like a dream. It is cherished for being ‘real football’. If the values of elite football have been dissolved by financial excess, at least that’s one problem the League of Ireland doesn’t have. The grounds offer intimacy if not always comfort, economy if not always convenience. The pitch and the occasion told on the legs in a way that puts you in mind of FA Cup Finals of the 1970s and 1980s, which were decided when one of the few players not suffering from cramp would stagger across the Wembley acres and exhaustedly poke home the winner.įor many, it is in this retro flavour that much of the League of Ireland’s charm resides. The game took on the flat, stilted nature finals often do, as if the players still think they are wearing their cup final suits. Or is just a big day out? Just because a man dresses up in a green hat and a fake beard on March 17, does it mean he wants to be a 5th century Welsh bishop? What does it all mean? All the people and the noise and the power chords and smoky atmospherics? Are the new hordes of cup final day a swelling chorus chanting for Irish football to come out of the shadowlands? Is it all part of the wider aspirational narrative that yearns for something authentic and homegrown and takes in the national teams and how they go about their business too? Last Sunday was the biggest crowd for a final since 39,000-odd crammed into Dalymount in 1968 to watch Shamrock Rovers beat Waterford in black and white. They put the final in the Aviva Stadium and the people came: the fourth time it had drawn more than 30,000 since the Ballsbridge bed pan opened in 2010. This was about tearing off the working clothes, putting on some lippy and looking like a star. There was no bellyaching about barstoolers or blazers. This wasn’t domestic football as cult curiosity. A crowd, loud and proud, in five figures, watching two Irish teams play in the luxury of a modern stadium. Thousands milling through the capital’s streets on their way to the match and the match owning the city. Packed trains and buses ferrying boisterous bands singing their songs loyal and profane.
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A day to get dressed up and act like a swell, to pretend a little, to imagine what it would be like if it was always like this.Īs the smoke cleared and a football match broke out you saw the shape of the dream.
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Unlike cup finals elsewhere, Ireland’s big day still feels like a big day. The moments before the FAI Cup final had a dreamlike quality because cup final day is Irish soccer’s time to dream. This was less Pats against Bohs, more the dawn of time as imagined by Ozzy Osbourne.